


Happy Hour and Down

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Blood, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell of Sam, and the sound of his blood, is one long constant roar. Dean's twitching in his own skin, desperate to just open his mouth and...<i>bite down, tear him apart, suffocate in it</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Hour and Down

  
Sam's talking, saying something about how they'll fix this. They'll fix this, like they fix everything else, voice a warm, familiar drone. Dean knows what the words will be because he's used them himself. He's forced them out to try and reassure people so many times, and he's meant them, every single time.

But that isn't why he's not listening now. No, it's the heavy drum-like pounding of Sam's heartbeat that's drowning out everything else. His brother's voice is almost a whisper under that overwhelming rhythm. Dean can barely make out the words. He's somewhere just on the edge of control, on the edge of rational thought. He's thinking about how he could tear Sam open and _everything he is_ would pour down his throat. That gnawing ache in his gut would finally stop. He feels like he's been thinking it for hours, sitting here pretending to be him, pretending that he's ok, that everything is going to be ok.

But everything behind his eyes is bright red.

He makes himself stop thinking it - only to have it rewind and start over again. There's no way he's going to last long enough to fight his way through the nest.

He's not even going to last long enough to get out of the motel room.

It's like drowning. The smell of Sam, and the sound of his blood, is one long constant roar. Dean's twitching in his own skin, desperate to just open his mouth and... _bite down, tear him apart, suffocate in it_. Knowing it's wrong, it doesn't stop him from wanting it, and it hurts not to take it. His entire body tight and cold and wrong.

Sam's gone still. He's stopped talking. He's just watching him now.

Dean can barely smell the twisted foulness of the cleaning products any more, or the heavy, flat grease of the burger Sam brought back. The room just smells like Sam, hot and sharp and full to the brim. He's everything Dean shouldn't be focusing on. But he can't fucking help it. He's changing into something else, something that just wants, in a way that doesn't care about family, or loyalty.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Sam says. He sounds more curious than afraid. Dean had almost forgotten - he'd almost forgotten that Sam doesn't get afraid any more. That he can't - though Dean's still not sure if he believes that or not.

"Can't think about anything else, can't breathe, can't move," he says honestly, in one long rush. "There's nothing else. You smell like everything I've ever wanted, you're so fucking loud and rich and I can taste you from here if I breathe in too hard. And I want to, I fucking want to. Because I'm starving." He doesn't mean it all to spill out. It's far too easy to say, even though it's brutal and monstrous and everything he's always promised himself he'd never be. That he wouldn't become, no matter what.

"Then you should do it," Sam says simply, easily. A temptation that crawls under his skin.

Dean grits his teeth and he can feel the slow shift where they're not his teeth any more. "You promised if this didn't work you'd take care of it. You'd take care of me."

"That's what I'm doing." Sam makes it sound so sensible.

Which is wrong, so fucking wrong. But Dean stays where he is, ignores the way Sam's boots shift closer, into his line of vision.

"That's not an option," he gets out, but only just.

"I've always given you what you need, haven't it?" Sam says quietly.

Dean snarls with too many teeth. "This isn't like that."

"Isn't it? If there's anyone you're not going to kill -"

"Don't bet your fucking life on whether I can control this or not," Dean says angrily. Because he can't, he really can't. He wouldn't bet his life on shit at the moment.

Sam hasn't moved away. "It's my life to bet."

"This isn't a game, I'm starving and I'm not thinking straight -"

"And there's no blood here but mine."

Dean's up before he even realises he means to move. He has no trouble at all slamming his brother into the wall; hard enough to knock free plaster. One hand's curved round his throat and it's strong but Dean knows he could crush it if he wanted to. Squeeze tight until the blood stopped pumping - and thinking it makes his fingers twitch, makes him crowd closer. Far too close to the smell of him.

"I want you to struggle," Dean admits, and that's something he never intends to say. Something that creeps out around the edges, something new.

"You know how messed up that sounds," Sam says. Though there's no judgement there. His voice is soft, breath warm and alive.

"I know it," Dean says tightly. "Do you?"

Sam - the Sam from before would have protested this closeness, he would have pulled away, uncomfortable, breath quick and afraid even if he didn't show it. Dean would have been able to taste it, that thread of fear.

This Sam is quiet, he watches him, warm and still and unafraid.

Watching Dean to see what he'll do.

Sam's throat is long and hot, strong and wide. But the skin's just as thin, just as fine as everyone else's. The blood is a roar that's so close to the surface Dean could fall into it, like a stream. He could just shut his eyes and get lost in the deafening, heady rush of it.

He knows his teeth have shifted all the way. His jaw aches and there's a desperate cold emptiness that feels like it's bleeding, a raw hole in him that hurts. It's a twisting coil of pain that clenches and bites at his inside. It would be so easy, so fucking easy.

Sam tips his head and Dean presses his thumb in hard enough to hurt.

"Don't, fucking don't," he says, desperately.

But it's already too late.

He's already too far gone.

Dean doesn't remember moving, he doesn't remember, but his mouth is full of blood and Sam is a tight line of tension all the way along him. He's swallowing around so much and it should be bitter and metallic and wrong. But it's not, god, it's not. It's alive, rich and thick and delicious where it's sliding down his throat. There is no Sam, there's just that burning rush of sparks, every cell in his body expanding with the fucking ferocity of it. It's like nothing he's ever felt.

Sam grunts, strains, tests his grip and Dean holds him still. Dean's stronger than him now, and that's a rush he doesn't know what to do with. A twisting, foreign stab of brand new want that horrifies and excites him.

There are long fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin.

"Dean."

Sam's voice is a long way away. Dean thinks he could make it thinner than that. He could drink until Sam was nothing but shallow breath and twitches. He could drink until he was nothing but a corpse sliding down the wall of their motel room.

But suddenly Dean has a handful of Sam's hair, holding too tight and his forehead is pressed into the bloody tear in Sam's neck, blood smearing across his skin. He's breathing like he's run for miles. Though he's not even sure if he even needs to any more.

He wants to bite down again. He wants to take it all. He can feel how good it would be - but instead he pulls back, drags Sam's head straight again. Sam winces, blinks.

"You have some really fucking stupid ideas," Dean says thickly.

Sam rolls his head, licks his lips and Dean follows the movement like he can't help it.

"I have no soul, and you're a vampire," Sam offers.

"Shut up," Dean says. Though he doesn't know whether Sam is reminding him of something that hurts, or tempting him into something he's not sure he knows how to regret.

They're so close now, mouths almost touching when they talk. Blood and sex are tangling together into one fucked up mess that's just _hunger_. Dean can't even peel them apart any more. There's so much wrong there he doesn't even know where to start.

"Shut up," he says again.

"Make me." Sam's voice is quiet. So fucking quiet.

Dean makes him, crushes him silent. He leaves no space for words. The fingers at his neck slide down and grip, dig into his shirt and hold, pull, twist to get him closer. There's a pulse pounding somewhere but he's no longer sure whose it is. Dean leaves Sam's mouth wet and slick, red curling down his chin to spill against his shirt.

Not all of it is his.

Dean should remember what that means.

He should remember.

  



End file.
